


I Wish I Didn't Love You (So Much, My Darling)

by LetMeBeBrave



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Heartbreak, M/M, anatole is just talked about, doesnt show up, hhello yes i like my dolokhovs tired gay and sad, if you look closely you can pinpoint the exact moment his heart breaks in half, pining dolokhov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeBeBrave/pseuds/LetMeBeBrave
Summary: “He is always there,” His drunken self reminded, “Never at the right place or the right time. But always when we need him, isn't that the humor in it all...” His drunken self gained a sad smile, “we may regret the scenarios, if he were not there. Somehow, he makes chaos sound like a symphony.” was said with a hint of wonder.“Anatole Kuragin, the devil on one shoulder, the angel on the other.”





	I Wish I Didn't Love You (So Much, My Darling)

**Author's Note:**

> Dolokhov is a sad man and hoooo im love 
> 
> Anatole is a fucker who has perfect hair and i both love and hate him for this
> 
> This is so self indulgent like everything else i write bUT I HOPE YALL LIKE

Many times in Fyodor Dolokhov's life, he found himself in situations that had caused him to give pause, to look around at his surroundings – _which, more often than not, were rooms full of men with alcohol pumping hot through their veins, faces flushed a blotchy crimson with rage and humiliation, pistols held unsteadily in shaking,_ _fat_ _hands, far too eager to defend their fragile egos_ – and wonder just...how he got there.   
  
  
He would give pause and ask himself this question, mentally grab his drunken self by the epaulets and shake him thoroughly, demanding to know   
_Why, you bastard?  
_ Why did he, time and time again, allow himself to get pulled into scenarios he knew in his right mind he would regret upon the following sunrise?   
  
  
He would crowd his drunken self into a corner, brows knit tightly together in raw fury, hands still with their white knuckled grip on the epaulets, and would recall to himself in great detail: the mornings he awoke with a rail-rode spike through his temples and the full force beams of lanterns shining into his half opened eyes – the aftermath of his over indulgences the night before, serving as a cruel reminder that _he was getting too old for this._  
  
  
He recalled, with heavy breaths and ever tightening fists: the night he spent freezing half to death in a road side ditch somewhere in Poland's godforsaken countryside, his teeth shattering and the blows he had received to his middle only throbbing worse with time.   
  
  
He recalled, with a break in his voice that he would later deny:  
the countless brawls he had a hand starting in the middle of taverns, ones that ended with him slumped against his seat in a troika as the driver madly made their escape, chest heaving and the sour taste of copper filling his mouth from his split lower lip.   
  
  
And his drunken self would simply laugh. Shake his head with mirth in his eyes, take his Sober face into burning hands, and softly recite the missing details in Dolokhov's tales –  
  
  
He colored in with Vodka stained breath: the mornings with the rail-rode spikes and lanterns in his eyes, _and the warmth of a toned body next to his, still deep in_ _blissful_ _sleep, face buried in Fedya's shoulder and flaxen hair strewn every which way.  
  
  
_ He colored in with a hiccup: the night in the ditch with chattering teeth and throbbing belly, _and the melody of a slurred song off to his side, the hardly decipherable words constantly interrupted by inebriated giggles and whines for him to join in._ _W_ _hich,_ _of course,_ _he did.  
  
  
_ He colored in with an all knowing grin, the countless brawls in taverns which left him panting and leaning against his seat in the Troika, _with a proud gleam in his eyes as he_ _pictured_ _the carnage_ _that he had caused_ _, broken bottles and splintered tables. And a storm always settled in his lap_ _during the afterglow of a fight_ _, a whirlwind of cyan eyes and that golden hair, who would pull Fedya close and claim his bloodied mouth with his own, both of them high off the thrill of it al_ _l, of being so recklessly and beautifully human and free._ _  
  
“_ _He is always there,”_ His drunken self reminded, _“_ _Never at the right place or the right time. But always when we need him, isn't that the humor in it all...”_ His drunken self gained a sad smile, “ _we may regret the scenarios, if he were not there. Somehow, he makes chaos sound like a symphony._ _”_ was said with a hint of wonder.  
  
“ _Anatole Kuragin, the devil on_ _one shoulder, the angel on the other.”  
  
_ His sober self scoffed, his grip on the epaulets having grown so terribly weak.   
“Never has Anatole Kuragin been an angel.”  
There were tears in his voice.   
  
_“And yet, we love him.”_ _  
_ _  
_“God, yes.”  
  
 __  


**Author's Note:**

> anatole can be yuor angle or ur devil
> 
>  
> 
> so YEAH  
> !! Comments and kudos i love both, tell me what you thought, im exhausted so imma go now babies


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